"I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me." Hunter S. Thompson

Mathias Nelson

Really Thinking About It

The real thingisn’t any goodanymore.Paper flowers and wooden bearscome fromthe same things as money.I got a five dollarbill. Would you like to get something toeat? If I didn’t have this five dollarbill, would you still want something toeat? Well I waslying. I’m broke.Can’t we just go kill something on our own?You don’t like that, doyou? Well what if I want to eatyou? Do not comply.I’ve also got a busted thumbnail sharp as a scytheand you’ve got a long tracheathick as an elbow-macaroni.

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Monkey Business

I was young, and already tired of loving cat.Fucking had become monkey business in zoosand my liver was weary of everything.I met a girl over the internetthat I will forever call the Silent Whore.Back when I was in schoolwe had past in hallsand I knew her timid smile—her hidden lust—but left it that way,hiddenbecause she was just too young.Later, when we wrote letters through wiresit was because she said she liked my poetry.My poetry, I thought. My poetry is maws and scissors,why would she like that?She said she needed someone to talk to,this town was so boring,home of the tallest six pack,so I said, okayyou can drink here.Then my brother stopped byand when he introduced himselfshe just sat silent, like a whore not used to words,only yips. It embarrassed mebut my brother soon left.She was very nervous,said she had a crush on me back in High School.I unzipped my pants and let her love the things she wanted.Her slurps filled the roomand she moaned like I was fucking herbut my cock could only reach her mouth.Her head bobbed so fast, so eagerthat she had to stop and heave breathsof saliva.I told her to stand.Yanked her pants down.I’ll give you all of what you want.She swayed with itand tried to move back against mebut her rhythm was all wrong.I told her to hold still. Hold still, I saidand then saw the blood.You didn’t tell me, I said.She just kept moaning, yes.I fucked and fucked herbut couldn’t cum.She became dry, ran out of blood even.My boxers were covered in it.I threw them on the floor.Afterwards she ordered a pizzaand watched me eat it.The liquor wore off, and my liver was tired again.I haven’t seen cat for a yearand have never felt so bloodless.She continued to try and reach meand succeeded once.Told me I was the firstman she swallowedWhat? I said. You never swallowedme. Yes, she moaned. Yes she did.

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Middle of The Lake

A male friend calls me, cryingbecause a woman left, found outthat he cheated. He’s one of my bestso I hear it. He’s sorryand so am I.

Then another friend calls, complainingabout work. The boss did this,he had to do that.

Don’t these people realizethat I’m two sips from being a bum?

And my brother, that son of a bitchall he does is talk about the job, caughtin some kind of muck like the rest,going down narrow channels in the rivertrying to get somewhere.

But for me, everything is wide open here.I plan to sift through this lake until—until, ah shit, until a great blue herontakes me away.

I did, however, almost try to get a tan todayfor a woman I can’t keep,only lasted five minutes, between the neighbors’humored faces and sweat stinging my eyes:I shall be a pale white man for as long as I can,though I love you all,who of you can blame mefor staying in this contained body of water, brimminguntil the flood?

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Wrong

Drinking Bombay Sapphireand listening to fast paced, maniacal jazz,Josh tells me about first gradewhen another boy knelt to slurpso he pissed in his mouth.

I sit, gaping at Josh in a bubble of drunk time,the toys of my first grade nephewsscattered about my feet, cockingmy head at the speedy background music:saxophones, trumpets, piano keyspounding, echoing upon my saturateddrums, and thus he promptly thinksI am making an accusation.

I’m not a fag, or anything, he says.Being that young and livingwith a mom that’s a whoreand a father that doesn’t existkids tend to dofucked up things,he says.

And all this time I thoughtmy parents should have separated,(I used to think they were going to killeach other. Really, they almost did.)perhaps I was wrong.

Pondering this, I tip my cup back,take a long gulp of warm gin,and with a cringe, unintentionally imagineit is hot—yellow summer piss.

1 comment:

no corner to back up to--no tree to shelter from the heat--nowhere to drive to--flat and forward, it spreads between the eyes and invades interstices among brain cells and lives in the body of the reader..the poetry of Mathias Nelson--ever alive in the detail.

Welcome to Paraphernalia

This is Paraphernalia Quarterly. If you've made it this far, chances are you know what you've gotten yourself into. This is the rogue's gallery, a place where there is honor among thieves and where the alias is an art form. Within you'll find poetry and prose from back-room card games and back-alley knife-fights, tales of misadventure and odes to girls-gone-wrong. This is a place where street-credit is more important than store-credit, where black-market entrepreneur is a viable occupation. Fights may break out, court dates may be ignored. Good times will be had. If this is what you've come looking for, sit down and pack a bowl. We've got stories to tell.